There is an Event I anticipate. It’ll be fun. It draws close and my excitement grows. And then it comes and I throw myself into it. I enjoy and consume the Event, drinking my fill and even a little bit more. Waves of happiness roll all over and it’s exactly how I had hoped it would be with the laughings and huggings and tomfooleries. And then it ends. And I’m the child who cries because he finished all his ice cream. The past killed the Event.
That’s the thing about the past. It consumes all Events, every single one. And it’s good that it does, otherwise I’d be stuck. I’d be static. And I can’t think of a worse hell than boredom. That’s why Alexander wept when there were no more lands to conquer. Just what else was he supposed to bother staying alive for?
I don’t mourn when the night of wild laughter winds out. I smile at the smoldering campfire the next morning. At the challenge of making pancakes without spatula or bowl. At the gentle pull of gravity on my shoulders. I smile that the powerful play goes on, and I get to contribute a verse.